A Scandalous Marriage by Cathy Maxwell Page A

had her baby and had experienced a moment of pure joy.
    Old Edith’s light snoring brought her back to reality. She had not been dreaming. She propped herself up on one arm, her hair falling back in a tangled mess. The air carried the smells she associated with the cottage, the lingering scents of baked bread and the sweet, pungent peat used to start fires.
    Leah listened. Other than the snoring, it was quiet. Even the rain had stopped. The fire in the hearth cast shadows against the curtain separating the two rooms.
    Was Devon still here?
    He’d appeared out of nowhere, a demon prince conjured from her dreams and her deepest regrets to save her son.

    Her baby. She sensed immediately her son was not in the room with her. She would have felt his presence.
    She searched the bed, looking for him. Where was her son? Her body ached in places she hadn’t known existed. Old Edith had helped her put on her petticoat and chemise after the baby was born.
    Leah combed her hair with her fingers and loosely braided it so it would be out of the way. Feeling her way in the dark, she reached up for the peg by the door where Old Edith had hung her wool dress.
    She had to stand to retrieve it. The world spun giddily for a moment and her legs were shaky, but she had to find her baby. She needed to see him, to hold him. To assure herself he was all right.
    Not bothering to lace the back of her dress, she took her first tentative steps. It felt funny to have her body back, to look down and see her toes on the cold floor.
    She pulled back the curtain and heaved a sigh of relief at the sight of the drawer in front of the fire. Old Edith had told her that a drawer was fine enough for a baby. They’d had this conversation only a few days ago. It had come when Leah had been feeling particularly guilty. She feared for her son’s future. He would never know his station in life or have access to the most basic privileges.
    Old Edith had laughed. “Love is what a baby needs,” she’d replied with firm Scottish conviction.
    And a drawer, she had added. Babies could safely sleep in a drawer.
    Each step stiff, Leah moved closer to that drawer. Old Edith slept on Leah’s pallet. She’d placed it far enough away from the fire so that she was still warm but the glowing light wouldn’t disturb her sleep.
    Suddenly, Leah realized that Devon was there. He slept in the chair with its high wood back to her, so that she couldn’t see his face. His long legs were stretched toward the fire, one booted foot crossed over the other.
    For a second, she couldn’t breathe. How often, when she’d been alone and afraid, had she wished for his strength, his teasing humor, his presence?
    The recriminations and anger that had driven them apart seemed insignificant now.
    On silent feet, she inched toward the drawer. Snippets of conversation, the moments of her labor—what he’d said, she’d said, how she’d responded—were confused and jumbled in her mind. She would be able to sort it all out after she’d taken her baby and retreated to the bedroom.
    She reached for the drawer, using both hands to lift it—and discovered it empty.
    Alarmed, she looked up… right into Devon’s eyes.
    In the golden firelight, his expression appeared grim. The neck of his shirt was open, the sleeves rolled up. Her baby was nestled protectively in the crook of his arm.
    With a soft gasp of mother love, she reached for her child, but Devon’s deep, silky voice stopped her.
    “Who is the baby’s father?”
    She froze. Her mouth went dry. Her heart pounded in her chest.

    He waited.
    A part of Leah wanted to run. But she’d never been a coward. Through sheer strength of will, she raised her chin in defiance, her gaze not leaving his.
    She could have challenged him, told him she didn’t owe him explanations, but in truth she did. Devon’s hand rested on the baby’s blanket-covered feet as if he were keeping them warm. Her son, and perhaps herself, would not have lived if it